Before Corona
You would tell me something,
But I would not hear,
Maybe because of the howling
Or the voices of the wind.

I would  ask "what?"
You'd repeat,
Once, twice, three times.
Eventually ending with a "nevermind."

And my heart would crack,
A pain consuming,
Of worries and sadness,
That I could not hear
The simple words you said.

Coronavirus rolled around
And the masks are worn by everyone around.
Sure, it is to keep it out,
But they also keep the voices muted.

You would say something,
Through the mask,
A barrier.
Yet again, I ask "what?"
And wonder if I knew how to sign
This would be so much easier.

How do I put this
For the hearing folk?
A shout in the ear,
A jab, or a poke.
What once was a whisper,
A tame, gentle brush,
Distant and soft,
And ever so hush,
Now it’s a SHOUT
From whisper to bang,
From dull, mild thud,
To a clamouring clang.
And it’s not just the volume,
God, if only…
I’d go back to the confusion,
Go back to the lonely…
But there’s the little noises,
Things that I’ve missed,
Like tinkling bells,
A click, or a hiss.
Now there’s more,
A whole colony of sound,
Like an anthill, you see,
From a hole to a mound.
A hell of an acquisition,
As my eardrums burn,
I must accept that I have
A new language to learn.
But in the privacy of solitude,
I switch off the pain,
And retreat into peace,
My silent domain.

I see the tears welling up in his eyes
As he sets there, with a heavy sigh
These thoughts on his mind heavily weigh
Under his breath I could hear him say
"I'm getting so very forgetful"
"I'm looking so **** pitiful"
He turned 87 a week ago
And his age is starting to show
I know he feels deaths grip closing in
His skin is paper thin
He's always cold even in the sweltering heat of summer
His hearing is almost gone, it's all just mummers
He talks of how his legs don't work so well any more
Getting up is such a chore
He has taken to cussing like a sailor
But reads the bible, getting ready to meet his creator
"Growing old in not for the weak or faint of heart
This growing old **** is hard"